


Schoolyard Games

by constellation_composer



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 2p spain is uhm a dick sorry, :/, Alternate Universe - High School, Amazing, BUT HERE'S THE THING, Bullying, Coming of Age, Cool, Growing Up, I know what you're thinking, Internalized Homophobia, Milkshakes, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Polyamory, Teenage Drama, The Inherent Fear Of Growing Up, Underage Drinking, and alfred isn't even a main character, arthur does track because???? i said so fuck off, gil why is this set in the 80s in america, i can't answer that, i don't know how to tag that in the ships sections if anyone is smarter than me please let me know, it's just a romcom w cheesy issues, it's like that except post the friend group issues, it's the 80s and they're gay ok? ok, its not the 80s anymore, let the woman laugh she deserves it, natalya gets ooc rights bc uh. fun and cool purposes? idrk, prussia and norway r both nyo, so moving on, that's it that's the fic, they all love each other ok?? that's important, they're all like 17/18 but u know how america is, they're petty let them live, u know how it is, u know those romcoms about like teenagers with friend group issues, wow that's actually a tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27013507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/constellation_composer/pseuds/constellation_composer
Summary: Here’s the thing: Arthur is falling behind. He just wants everything to calm down. Everything needs to slow down for just a minute, so that he can catch his breath.Here’s the thing about that: if you fall too far behind, you end up right where you thought you were running from.-or; Arthur is seventeen years old, and he has no fucking clue what's going on, but he's not sure he knows how to figure it out either. He's so tired of being bitter. The thing is, he's not sure what else to be anymore.
Relationships: England & Spain (Hetalia), England (Hetalia)/Norway (Hetalia)/Romania (Hetalia)/Belarus (Hetalia), France/Spain (Hetalia), Lithuania/Poland/Prussia (Hetalia)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> OK SO
> 
> yeah i have nothing to say. i could have updated something else. i have the next chapter of my chatfic fully written and everything. but instead i am going to post this (: idiot rights
> 
> uhm names ig?? i don't think i'm using any uncommon ones but!  
> England: Arthur  
> Nyo!Norway: Linnea  
> Romania: Dmitri  
> Belarus: Natalya  
> Spain: Antonio  
> France: Francis  
> Belgium: Emma  
> Lithuania: Tolys  
> Poland: Feliks  
> Nyo!Prussia: Julia
> 
> so yay *jazz hands* i hope you enjoy!!

Later, he’ll reflect that the puzzle pieces have been there all along, scattered in his reach. Once he catches his breath, he’ll start laughing at himself, but he can’t laugh when he can’t breathe, so for now he’s just running blind.

So here’s the thing: Arthur has always been very good at hating things. It’s not really intentional, honest. He’s just bitter by design. And maybe that’s his problem, if he thinks about it, but he hates thinking about it, so he doesn’t. (He does  _ sometimes,  _ but only if he’s very tired or very sad or something along those lines. He doesn’t ever think about it on purpose.) Arthur has spent seventeen years practicing bitterness, perfecting scowls, and he has it to an art.

The issue is, Arthur doesn’t really hate things anymore. It’s still so easy to get annoyed, but he’s so tired of being angry. He doesn’t want to be angry. He just wants everything to calm down. Everything needs to slow down for just a minute, so that he can catch his breath and stop falling behind.

God, he’s falling so far behind.

.

.

“Why the  _ fuck _ did we pick the sport that practices in summer?” Natalya falls into step beside him, scowling. She’d cut her hair to her shoulders a few months ago, and it's messily half tied back, a few strands dangling in her face. Arthur snorts and reaches out, brushing them away.

“The hell of it?” he answers drily. She wrinkles her nose in response, obviously unsatisfied. “Because leg muscles are sexy?”

She considers that for a moment before nodding decisively. “You’re right.”

“What’s he right about?” Her friend asks, appearing on her other side. Her name is pretty, Emma or something, and Arthur was in Spanish with her once, but they’ve only spoken a handful of times. She has the look of a track runner, all long legs and arms outlined with muscle and faint freckles across her nose that speak of time in the sun. She’s got long eyelashes, too, dark and framing wide green eyes, and delicately boned hands that are always moving, fluttering or tapping or tucking her hair away behind her ear. She’s pretty, which makes her hard to talk to. Her face is curious, regarding Arthur with bright eyes, and he hopes his scowl doesn’t falter.

“Leg muscles are sexy,” Arthur repeats before he loses his nerve. Emma laughs, thank the Lord, but they’re reaching the stadium before she actually replies. Arthur gives them a wry, “See you on the other side,” before jogging over the fence, where the boys are slumped haphazardly. The girls always get to do their warm up laps first, because Coach is sexist and thinks they run out of energy quicker.

Tolys is on the ground, his head on his knees, and Feliks is next to him, humming some trashy pop song and sprinkling dirt over Tolys's head. Ivan is watching them with bored, half-lidded eyes, clearly unenthralled. Matthias is stretching his legs, which is normal, except right next to him Timo is hooking himself into the chain link with his fingers and toes to hang there like Jesus or some shit- no offence to Jesus, Arthur just likes Timo more- and that’s somewhat disturbing.

Feliks catches sight of him and waves. It’s always sort of weird when Feliks waves- they’ve known each other for a long, long time, just like everyone else in this damn town, but Arthur had sown nothing but bitterness for a long, long time, and getting greeted with smiles still feels like a revelation. It lightens his scowl, just a little. Not too much, though. He waves back and then kicks Feliks lightly in the chest, just to be a pain.

"Ow!" Feliks grabs his ankle and yanks, snorting as Arthur yelps loudly. He lets go before Arthur falls, but still glares. "That hurt, bitch."

Arthur huffs, flopping down on the ground. "You hurt my eyes." Feliks raises his eyebrows and drops the next handful of dirt on Arthur’s head. "Ugly  _ traitor-" _

"Who am I betr-"

"Fe," Tolys says, opening one eye. "Shut the hell up." Feliks puts up his hands with a sarcastic muttered apology. Tolys smacks his arm. Feliks smacks him back, and they devolve into a weird kind of half wrestling match that Tolys very easily wins without really moving. Feliks looks displeased. As compensation, Arthur drops some dirt on him. Mysteriously, this doesn't make Feliks look any more pleased.

There’s the sharp blow of a whistle, and the boys jerk to attention. Coach claps his hands twice. "Alright! Up and on it, boys! I'm sensing a good practice today! I'm keeping you here 'til I'm good and satisfied, so you better be on your toes and ready to run!"

They are not. Honestly, the leg muscles aren’t worth this.

The summer heat makes them lazy. It's nearly six in the fucking evening before the bastard finally calls it a day. Arthur stumbles back to his car from the track, fumbling for his keys and muttering darkly to himself. "Fucking  _ hell _ ." He pouts dramatically as Feliks passes by, wiggling his arms pointedly. "I feel like jelly," he whines irritably, trying to garner sympathy.

Feliks pouts back. "I feel like someone cut my legs off." Tolys rolls his eyes goodnaturedly (probably. It was hard to tell with him, sometimes.) and swings his keys around his fingers. Feliks lifts a foot to hang limply in the air. "I'm falling apart," he says, half as a sigh. "I'm going to m-  _ Tolys!" _

Tolys had swung him up and over his shoulder- fairly easily, although Feliks wasn't very tall, and honestly Arthur could probably pick him up too- and started for his car.

"Tolys!" Feliks exclaims again, kicking at him, but Tolys just laughs at him. Arthur snorts, shaking his head, and fumbles with the car door again.

He's interrupted again almost immediately, this time from a shout across the parking lot. "Wait, Arthur!" Rapid footsteps echo behind him, and he turns just in time for Natalya to skid into his chest and knock the breath out of him. "Oh shit, shit, are you good?" Arthur pulls her back by her shoulders so that he can see her face- honestly, having Nat pressed up against him was nice, but the sun is lighting the earth on fire and he just ran approximately eight miles, so maybe later. "Sorry." She pats his hand. "Emma has to stop by her dad's store on the way home, can you give me a lift?"

Arthur narrows his eyes at her, pretending to debate, even though they both know he'll say yes. "You wanna drive?" he offers. "My legs are killing me."

Natalya scoffs and circles around the passenger seat. "I'll drive this fucker on a cold day in Hell. Now get in."

Arthur tsks his tongue disapprovingly, shaking his head, but slides dutifully in the driver's seat. "Right now it's not a cold day anywhere," he mutters. Natalya, thankfully, does not correct him on this "fact". She just snorts and starts to rifle through his tapes. "Jesus, Nat," he grumbles. "It's not even that far to your house."

Natalya glances out the window. "Keep driving."

"Huh?" Arthur gives her as good of a confused scowl as he can while still watching the road. Natalya rolls her eyes and keeps rifling.

"I said keep driving, Arthur."

He keeps driving.

They pass Natalya's house as Joan Jett starts to filter through the tinny little speakers, and she wrinkles her nose but mouths along with the words. Arthur has started humming by the time they pass the soda shop, the one Emma's dad owns. The song has switched over to Queen by the time they approach Tolys's- Natalya rolls down the window down as she sees it coming up and unbuckles her seatbelt, leaning out as far as she could and blatantly ignoring Arthur's exclamation of horror. "Hey, assholes!" she yells. In the driveway, Tolys and Feliks glance up in time to see her flip them off, grinning widely. Tolys yells something indistinct back, and Feliks returns the gesture with both hands and a laugh. Arthur shakes his head as she pulls back in.

"You're an idiot, Nat," he says sternly. She leans over and pokes the corner of his mouth.

"You're smiling," she sing songs. "You think I'm funny."

"Absolutely not. Seatbelt, dumbass."

She huffs, but obeys before she turns the music up. Arthur gives her a look of fake reprimand before rolling his window down too and accelerating. Natalya cheers. "That's what I'm talking about!" The wind is blowing her hair wildly about, but he can still see her smile. He can still see the way her eyes are shining, fixed on him. Fixed just on him.

"You've got a dimple," he remarks, looking back at the road before he crashes his car over Natalya Arlovskaya's pretty eyes.

"What?"

He reaches over and pokes it lightly. "You've got a dimple," he repeats. "Just the one, though." Natalya blinks. "It's cute," he adds, in case she's offended.

Natalya blinks again. "Oh. Thank you." She's grinning again, but it's smaller. It feels more intimate, somehow.

Arthur looks away and speeds up again.

Shermon is the next town over, and in all honesty, it's not much different. It's small, it's trashy, it's mostly suburbs, and the mayor is an asshole with an ugly haircut. It used to have a sign alongside the road, but someone crashed into it with a pickup three years ago and it's still lying on the ground. The roads are all shitty gravel, too, because apparently nobody knows how to fucking pave, and they have a sign in the front yard of 305 Reindeer Path because in 1914 some cult pulled a mass suicide there and that's the last interesting thing that happened.

They've got Whizzy's, though, and that makes them a little better than home. Jenny's isn't bad, and Brick's is almost good sometimes, but those are the only two places worth eating, really, and Whizzy's is like God in comparison. They've got  _ real  _ milkshakes, like ones that actually taste good and don't melt in five minutes. They also have good fries according to the girl Timo said Koit said Ivan said Feliks said Tolys said he might be kind of dating (Arthur still doesn't know her name, but she has cute bangs?) but it's the milkshakes that are in popular demand.

Arthur skids slightly as he parks, but he doesn't have time to be ashamed before Natalya is pulling him out. It's nearly half past- damn, he really had been speeding, hadn't he?- but the sun is still bright above the treeline. Fucking summer.

Natalya points him to a table when they get inside, her face unnaturally stern. "Sit. Stay," she instructs, watching him carefully until he sits down. He raises an eyebrow, but Natalya just nods approvingly and heads up to the counter. Arthur sighs, leaning forward on his hands. Outside there are some kids playing on the curb, about nine or ten. Playing? Arguing? Both, probably. Arthur's never met a ten year old that didn't bite. One of them is yelling vehemently at his friend, stamping his feet and pointing fingers, the whole shebang. It's almost impressive how red his face is turning. He catches the tail end of the screaming as the door creaks open for another guest.

"Because he fucking pushed me, that's why-"

Natalya slides in across the booth from him, three milkshakes in tow. Arthur raises an eyebrow. "We got company?" he asks, curious. Natalya throws him a disdainful look.

"No, dumbass.” It's amazing how scathing she can be even as a smile twitches onto her face. "These-" she slid the vanilla and- Jesus, what the hell is that? It's bright purple. Arthur is wary of purple food- the purple one towards herself. "-are mine. This-" she passes him the chocolate with a wrinkle of her nose, "- is yours."

Arthur takes a sip and sighs loudly, satisfied. "Ah, the good ol' Whizzy's dazzle," he says dreamily, stirring it slowly.

Natalya splutters on her mystery milkshake as she laughs. "Ol' razzle dazzle," she agrees. Her tongue is already purple.

Arthur suddenly aches for his tongue to be purple too.

Arthur suddenly can't breathe very well.

Natalya is still laughing slightly, the sun caught in the branches of the trees outside and leaking gold into her hair. She'd scraped it up into a haphazard ponytail after the second hour of practise, and it's all frazzled and bumpy and falling out around her face. The sweat has cooled off of her face, but it’s messy, flecked with dirt from the unswept track. It’s all over her shoulders, too. Arthur can't see that right now, though, because she's wearing a t-shirt over her practice tank top. An old blue t-shirt.

Dmitri's t-shirt.

Arthur takes another sip of his milkshake and listens to Natalya laugh, because it's the prettiest sound he's ever heard, and then he steals a sip of her milkshake as she's trying the vanilla. It's cherry, as it turns out.

"Ok, but why the hell is it purple?" he's still asking as they leave. They're stumbling a little bit- turns out sitting for hours on overworked legs doesn't do wonders for the joints. Who knew? (Them, because they do it everytime, and then they always complain the next day about the ache. It's tradition, because they're idiots.)

"It's not  _ real cherries, _ Arthur," Natalya is saying, sounding oddly disappointed in him. She's still grinning, though, so he can't feel bad. "It's just flavoring."

"What, so it's fucking neon purple?" Arthur scoffs. He opens the car door for her. She curtsies for him. "That's fucking ugly. Should've used a different flavoring." He starts the car. He almost forgets the headlights, which don't really matter that much in a place like Shermon where you can't drive above twenty without skidding, but he remembers at the last moment.

"I doubt they picked it for its color, Kirkland. Damn, what time is it?" Natalya checks her watch. "We were there for three and a half hours?"

Arthur barks out a laugh, pressing down on the accelerator as he navigates out onto the main road. "That's a new record, I think. How fast do you think I can get back?"

"Nah. First meet last year. You, me, Ivan, and Tolys. That was like, six hours." Mischief sparks into her eye. "I bet you can get above seventy out here."

"No fucking way we were there for six hours," he rebukes. "No fucking way."

"Yes fucking way."

"Nuh uh."

"Yuh h-  _ I didn't say ninety, Arthur!" _

Arthur speeds up, grinning even wider, and Natalya keeps yelling, but she's also leaning out the window, and the wind is fucking up her hair. Her shirt is flying up over her stomach. She has freckles there, too.

Dmitri's shirt.

Arthur decides it's better if he doesn't recognise it for now.

.

.

Here’s the thing: Arthur is falling behind. He’s gotten caught up in a million, dozen things, and it’s pulling the ground straight up from under his feet. Everyone's… getting somewhere, going somewhere, planning something for themselves, and Arthur’s… well, he’s not. Arthur’s just walking. Everybody else is learning to run.

Here’s the thing about that: if you fall too far behind, you end up right where you thought you were running from.

.

.

"Hey, can we talk?"

The words themselves aren't terribly shocking. Toni's always been a talker. He can't leave things unsaid for his life- it's a special talent, being as much an emotional rollercoaster as Antonio Carriedo. Nobody else has ever gotten it quite right, in Arthur's opinion. In any case, he's not very surprised by Antonio's question. He's only surprised by the timing.

His mouth opens and closes a few times, and finally he manages a weak, "how did you get in my house?" that Toni apparently chooses to ignore.

"Can we talk?" he asks again, and Arthur is trying very hard to be annoyed, but Antonio looks desperate, and Arthur wants to be a good friend. Arthur hasn't always been a very good friend. (And it's not that Antonio  _ has _ , necessarily, but grudges never helped anyone, and Arthur would rather leave it in the past than settle petty scores. There’s no use in sowing bitterness anymore. (Honestly, there never was.))

So he sighs and scoots over, patting the comforter next to him. "Sure. What is it?”

Antonio doesn't say anything for a while. He settles in carefully, like it's consecrated ground, and folds his legs all slow and awkward. Like he's forgotten how exactly he's meant to do it. Arthur doesn't press him. He just watches, taking him in, studying him as best he can in the dim light. Antonio. He's not dressed for bed- he's got on basketball shorts that don't fit quite right anymore, old grey ones that Arthur remembers him wearing for gym years ago. No wonder they're too small. Those were good days, back when he and Toni were the same height. (The thought is funnier than it ought to be.) The sweater, a bright red one that comes all the way down over his hands, is newer; Arthur remembers the first time he saw Antonio wear it. It was one of the worst days of his life.

"I remember last time you wore that," he says. Antonio glances down at the sweater and blinks.

"Oh." Recognition flashes across his face, followed by a wince. "Oh, I didn't-"

"I know," Arthur interrupts, and laughs. It's not very amused, but Antonio's answering smile isn't very happy, so that's alright. "There's no reason you would." He waits in silence again as Toni adjusts into the space. It seems far too small for him. (Everything has always been too small for Antonio.)

Toni lets out a held breath after another moment, scrubbing his hand over his face sharply. "I'm a fucking moron," he mutters to himself, and Arthur raises his eyebrows in response. Antonio sighs again. "It's-" he glances away. The window is still open. The streetlamp is casting shadows over his face. "It was stupid to come here." His voice is fragile.

Arthur shifts a little so that he's facing him. "Toni." He reaches out. "Hey, asshole, give me your hand." Antonio snorts, but obliges, slipping his fingers into Arthur's. Arthur squeezes. "You can say whatever you need to say," he promises quietly. "You already know way too much about me anyway, so it's only fair, right?" Antonio laughs, but the sound is weak. "Besides," he continues, even softer. "You're my friend."

They’re friends, aren’t they?

"And you're okay with that?" Arthur opens his mouth to answer, but Antonio rushes on. "I mean, I know we hang out all the time and shit and I missed you a lot and I know you know I'm sorry, but like…" Antonio shrugs helplessly. His eyes are glittering through the dark, and Arthur has always thought Antonio's eyes look like they can see everything, but right now they just look empty. "I don't know. I was talking to Julia about school next year, and I just…" His knees bounce awkwardly up and down like a weird butterfly. They do that when he's nervous. "School's going to start soon. And I need to know that you're okay with… this." He gestures between the two of them with his free hand. "That you're okay with being my friend." He looks guilty.

"Why wouldn't I be okay with it?" Arthur squeezes his hand again. Antonio's nose twitches. "What, just because some assholes talk behind your back?"

"Some of those assholes are your friends," Antonio points out, his voice suddenly even softer. He doesn’t say that Arthur was one of them himself for a while, but it still hangs in the air. "I don't want you to lose your friends." Arthur doesn’t really have friends, but it’s a sweet sentiment.

"I would rather lose them than you,” Arthur says. “I already lost you once." It's a clichè, cheesy line, but it works. Antonio scrubs at his eyes with his palm, taking in a shaky breath. "Come on, don't make me hug you."

"Asshole," Antonio replies, but there's no heat behind it. His hand falls back into his lap. Arthur reaches out to hold that one, too, and Antonio laughs quietly but allows it. There's a thick silence before he speaks again. "You were my best friend." (That's not true. Arthur has never been anyone's best friend. But it's a pretty sentiment, and Arthur knows Antonio will deny the truth anyway, so he just smiles.) "And I…" Antonio takes another of those weird, trembling breaths and stares at the wall behind Arthur's head. "I feel… guilty," he says slowly, his brow furrowing. Arthur doesn't know if they should be having this conversation at two in the morning. Arthur doesn't know when else they could possibly have it. (In truth, Arthur doesn't know much of anything.) He waits patiently for Toni to continue. "I shouldn't have acted the way I did."

Arthur gives another sad laugh. That's pretty much the only kind of laugh he can manage right now. "You were an asshole," he agrees. Antonio snorts.

"Not sure asshole covers it," he mutters, squeezing Arthur's hands. It feels nice. "I shouldn't have… well. You know."

Arthur does know, but all of the sudden he feels incredibly tired of this. He's done dancing around this. He's done enough avoidance in the past three years that he deserves a goddamn award, and maybe it's selfish, but he wants to hear Antonio own up to it this time. "Shouldn't have what?" And it's sharper than intended, but Antonio doesn't look hurt. He just swallows hard. He probably gets it. He used to get it, at least, but that was a long time ago.

His voice is quiet. "I shouldn't have hit you." His eyes flick to Arthur's for half a second before they fix back on the wall. "I shouldn't have judged you for what you chose. I shouldn't have, like, projected my anger onto you or whatever the fuck Feli says.”

“I shouldn’t have hit you back,” Arthur says, and squeezes his hands. “We can psychoanalyse it to death, but it’s still dead. I forgive you.” It's oddly cathartic to say. Or maybe it's just cathartic to see the way Antonio's shoulders relax when he does. Either way, Arthur can't help but smile.

"I'm sorry for punching Feliks,” Antonio adds in belatedly, and Arthur laughs. It's not sad this time.

"Pretty sure I'm not the one you owe an apology." Antonio's nose wrinkles suddenly and sharply. "Hey, I didn't say you had to! Don't give me that look!"

"Ok,  _ Mom _ ," Toni replies, rolling his eyes, and then they're both laughing way too loud for this time of night. Arthur's mum is definitely going to hear them. He wonders briefly if she’ll recognise Antonio's laugh, but decides it doesn't matter. What matters is that he has his best friend back. The laughter lulls after a minute, and Antonio's eyes flicker to the wall again. "I thought he had stolen you from me," he admits lowly. Arthur's voice sits heavy in his throat.

"I was already gone."

"I know." Their eyes meet, and it feels like it's supposed to this time, like Toni can see all the way through him. It's weirdly comforting, although Arthur hates it when anyone else looks at him like that.

Alfred looked at him like that. Alfred was a weird kid, though.

Arthur's eyes sting.

"Shit." Antonio's hands fly out to grab his again. "Shit, I'm sorry-" He looks frantic. Antonio has always been a pioneer of self blame.

Arthur shakes his head, forcing out a smile. "No, it's not- it's not you. It's-" Antonio doesn't know about Alfred. Arthur has never wanted to talk about it. Arthur doesn't want to talk about it now either, actually, so he just breathes in and out as steadily as he can and rubs his thumbs over Anontio's knuckles. "I'm ok." He's definitely crying a little bit, but it's like two thirty, so he's justified. What are a few tears between friends, after all?

"Ok." Antonio smiles thinly back at him. He doesn't press.

They fall back into silence, but it's not heavy. It's a soft kind of silence. It's as cathartic as their conversation, plus a million times less likely to make Arthur have a meltdown in his own fucking bed. The wind drifts in through the window. Arthur should probably start locking it, but sometimes Gabriel will stop by at three or four or five with pot and physics questions, and Arthur likes Gabriel. He's nothing like Antonio or Abel or Francis, but Arthur's come to accept that no one is like Antonio or Abel or Francis, and in all honesty he'd rather they weren't. It was a resignation at first; he doesn't have to live with resignations anymore, though, so he watches the wind move through Toni's hair and waits for his smile to relax into authenticity.

"I'm not like Feliks."

He's whispering again. Arthur feels the urge to roll his eyes, but he represses it and squeezes Antonio's hands again instead, because it's two thirty in the morning and he loves his petty, dramatic, trespassing best friend. "You don't even know Feliks," he points out, and Toni's nose twitches again. It's funny when it does that. Francis always gets a weird look on his face.

"No, I don't," Antonio finally says. His voice has dropped even lower. "But I-" he swallows. "I know he's not… like me."

Arthur's eyebrows wrinkle. "If this is about the shit Santiago says," he starts carefully, and Antonio twitches. "Don't bother. Santiago's a fucking liar, everyone knows it." Antonio lets out a shaky laugh. "I know he's wrong about you, okay?" Arthur says, as gently as he can.

Antonio closes his eyes tightly. "Okay, but… what if he's not?" he whispers. Arthur opens his mouth, but he's interrupted again. "Not about… everything. But what if…" he trails off, and then opens his eyes. They're hollow again. "Francis is taller than me, did you notice?" His tone is forcibly light. Strained.

Francis.

Suddenly, Arthur thinks he might know what's going on, and he breathes out a sigh of relief. He's much more equipped to deal with this than Toni's insecurities. He squeezes his friend's hands and scoots closer. "Yeah, I did. Only, like, an inch, though."

"Two," Antonio corrects. Arthur accepts this, because Antonio has a history of being the Encyclopedia Of Francis Bonnefoy. "It, uh… I don't know. God, this was stupid." There's a pause that hovers tensely between the two of them. "I guess what I'm saying is-"

Arthur is the one to interrupt this time. "Me too," he says, too quick and too loud, and Antonio looks startled. "Sorry. I-" he clears his throat. "Not Francis. Just…" They're staring at each other again. They don't usually stare at each other. This is weird. "I stole this shirt from Gabriel," he says, because he needs to say something.

"Gabriel," Antonio repeats, dumbfounded.

"Gabriel."

“My brother?”

Arthur hesitates. Fuck. “Different Gabriel?” Antonio raises an eyebrow. “Okay, fine, yes.”

Antonio whistles. "Damn, okay." His lips are twitching. "And here I thought... " He trails off meaningfully. Arthur raises his eyebrows, and Antonio laughs out loud. He hasn't heard Toni laugh like that in a while- earlier, it was borderline hysterical, an impossibly stressed sort of thing. This isn't stressed. This is gentle. "Natalya?”

“Okay, I- shut up. Shut up.” Arthur smacks his shoulder. “No. Stop talking right now. We’re  _ friends. _ We’re not- I don’t-”

There's something very special about making your best friend laugh, he decides. He's never appreciated it fully before. Two years ago, he reflects wryly, he couldn't have dreamed of enjoying Antonio fucking Carriedo's laugh. But two years ago, Arthur was just some asshole in the crowd, and Antonio was the certified freak that it was easier to pretend he didn't know. He wonders if people remember when they were younger. Everybody loved Antonio when they were younger.

Doesn’t really matter now, though.

He wants to say he's sorry for that. He wants to say he's glad Toni came back. He wants to say that he'd rather walk into Hell in his stocking feet then let his best friend leave again. But the words stick awkwardly to the inside of his throat, and instead, all he says is, "I think I have some extra pajama pants. Those can't be comfortable," but when Antonio gets up he locks the window, and in some weird way Arthur thinks he gets it.

He rolls over to let Antonio change, but he peels the comforter back until he slips in beside him. It should probably be weird to sleep like this, especially after what they've just admitted to each other, but it's not. It's not Antonio Carriedo, the gay freak from school. It's Antonio Carriedo, his best friend, and Arthur falls asleep grinning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Uh," Arthur replies eloquently. He can't think of much except how it was one thing when they were laughing in his room last night, but now that Antonio is here, sitting at his table, eating bits of honey-soaked waffle off his knife, making small talk with his mum, it's all just a shade too foreign, like when he used lemon instead of lime for a tequila shot. It wasn't awful. It was just off-axis.  
> -  
> or; life has moved on. Arthur just hasn't quite learnt how yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back to teenage angst central!!! it do be Like That all the times. sorry it takes me twenty years to update everything im poor and sad and also i had corona
> 
> reminders on names!!  
> England: Arthur  
> Nyo!Norway: Linnea  
> Romania: Dmitri  
> Belarus: Natalya  
> Spain: Antonio  
> France: Francis  
> Monaco: Lucille  
> Belgium: Emma  
> Lithuania: Tolys  
> Poland: Feliks  
> Nyo!Prussia: Julia

"Morning, sunshine!" Arthur groans, scrubbing a hand over his face, and tilts his head slowly to regard his friend.

"Morning, Toni," he mumbles. Antonio just grins back. Antonio doesn't grin like this very often; this is disconcerting. "Did something good happen?"

Antonio rolls his eyes, but it’s gentler than normal. “Can’t I smile at my own best friend?” he asks, and turns to get off the bed quickly enough that he doesn’t catch Arthur’s face growing disgustingly fond. He’s got to get his shit together. Jesus. He lets Antonio borrow some clothes- black sweatpants and an old black Star Wars shirt because God forbid the man wear any color- and pretends not to hear him snicker when he notices the 16 emblazoned on the side of the sweats. (16 was Gabriel’s baseball number. Arthur is beginning to regret spilling that particular secret.) Antonio, never well adjusted to being ignored, begins, “So were you guys, like-”

“No.” Arthur pulls on a hideous striped button-up, black and green and yellow, that he only bought because seeing it makes Feliks look physically ill. Antonio looks delighted by it, naturally. “We just…” he lowers his voice to a mumble. “You know.”

Antonio is awful at discretion. “You fucked?”

Arthur tries not to laugh. He really, really does. “Yeah, but it was like… a three-time thing. He only comes over for pot now.” Antonio rolls his eyes again. Arthur decides to be offended. But like, in his head, because Toni is funny and all, but he remembers pretty damn clearly what it’s like to have that fist on his eye, and he’s wary of pissing him off. (Santiago says Antonio isn’t stable. Arthur pushes that little voice away. Santiago’s full of shit, anyway.)

“‘It was like a three-time thing’,” Antonio mocks in a high pitched voice. “But you kept a bunch of his clothes and you say his name all dreamy.” Arthur spins around, gaping in affront.

“I do  _ not _ sound dreamy!” Antonio hums noncommittedly, crossing his arms. “I do not! Take it back!” He snatches up a sock and holds it threateningly. “Bastard!”

Toni doesn’t look very intimidated by Arthur’s choice of weapon, and he just shrugs. “I don’t know, Kirkland. You’re sounding a bit like- hey!” The sock slaps him across the cheek, and Arthur freezes for a moment. Toni’s face is frozen in an expression he can’t quite read.  _ Shit. _

But Antonio just sticks out his tongue and says, “Lover boy,” so Arthur shrieks and hits him with the sock again. Toni dodges it with offensive ease and jumps back with a cackle that Arthur hasn’t heard in years. It’s a brief moment of chasing before Antonio gets the door open and scrambles out into the hall, Arthur on his heels all the way down the stairs, waving the sock in the air.

“ _ Damn _ you, Carriedo-”

Antonio stops short just outside the kitchen, and Arthur stumbles into him, knocking both of them forward. There’s another shriek and a loud “fuck!” before they’re both on the floor and someone is laughing. It’s too high pitched to be Antonio, so who- oh, right. Arthur sighs, his head falling onto the back of Toni’s shoulder, and mumbles an ashamed, “Hey, Mum,” that only makes her laugh harder. Antonio is starting to make weird half aborted snorting noises too, but Arthur strongly suspects those are due to the shame in his voice.

“Do either of you want breakfast?” Mum asks, her voice still amused. “I made waffles. They’re not award-winning, but it was a box mix and there’s syrup, so I think it’s okay.”

Arthur sighs, rolling off Antonio so that they can get up and dust themselves off. Princey is perched on her counter, watching judgmentally. He sticks out his tongue at her. “Tonio eats his waffles with honey,” he answers automatically, briefly surprised he remembers.

His mom blinks. “Oh. What the hell, Antonio?”

For some reason, that’s the funniest thing the boys have heard since Gabriel, and Arthur has to double over, literally choking, before he can compose himself. His mother looks a little concerned.

“Yeah, anyway.” He collapses at the table, dragging Antonio into the seat next to him. “Uh, we were supposed to go over to Tolys’s today. Seeing Linnea off.” His mom passes them two plates and puts the honey on the table, taking a sip of her margarita. “She said she was leaving at, like, noon? So we were going to hang out for a little bit before that.” Mum gives a heavy mock sigh.

“Leaving me all by myself again,” she replies mournfully. She has a little pink umbrella in her drink. “All alone. No one here to keep me company.”

Arthur gives her a flat stare. “Call the boy.”

She sighs again. “He’s out of town.” Arthur knocks the honey out of Antonio’s hand, staring at the drenched waffle in horror, before he looks back at his mum.

“Call the sequel,” he suggests, still equally monotone. Mum, her mournful face unbudging, takes a long sip of her margarita before she replies.

“He’s at work. Oh, don’t let him stop you, honey, use as much as you want. Only I can judge you.” The woman with a Star Trek shirt and a morning margarita is apparently not very intimidating, because Antonio immediately resumes his heresy.

Arthur pauses, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Wait. Why don't you have work?"

Mum apparently decides to ignore him. "So, who's going to be at Tolys's?" she asks, mostly addressing Antonio. He's finally set the honey aside, thankfully. "I don't even know who the crew is these days." Arthur knows she doesn't mean it harshly, but his heart twists awkwardly anyway. He sets his fork down.

Toni clicks his tongue. "Honestly, we barely do either. Uh… me, Arty, Linnea, obviously. Dmitri, maybe? Natalya and Francis are both coming, think." He pauses. "Is Feliks going to be there?"

"Uh," Arthur replies eloquently. He can't think of much except how it was one thing when they were laughing in his room last night, but now that Antonio is  _ here, _ sitting at his table, eating bits of honey-soaked waffle off his knife, making small talk with his mum, it's all just a shade too foreign, like when he used lemon instead of lime for a tequila shot. It wasn't awful. It was just off-axis. "I think he stayed over, so probably." Feliks almost always stays over, so it seems like a good bet. Antonio stares at him intently for a moment before nodding.

"Right." And that's that, and Arthur tries not to look confused, because weakness is never attractive.

Mum finishes her drink and stands, heading for the counter. "That sounds lovely!" Arthur picks at his waffles a little more, ignoring the way Antonio's gaze fixes on his hands sharply. "Are you picking Natalya up, Arthur?" his mum continues obliviously, mixing up a new margarita. "Oh, do either of you want- wait, I can't give you these." She frowns momentarily, then pulls down two more glasses. "Just a little bit is fine," she murmurs to herself, although it's not exactly a little. "I assumed it was her when I heard you laughing last night. He doesn't laugh like that with many people," she adds, handing Antonio his drink. "It's nice to hear." Arthur stares into his glass, as if he can hide from the way Antonio is looking at him- a smirk, he's sure, or some kind of smug quirk to his eyebrows. "I'm going to call the knock-off," Mum decides, then sweeps out of the room in all her Star-Trek-pajama-ed glory. Antonio laughs a little under his breath.

"Who's the knock off?"

Arthur chances a glance up at him. "Dinos." The look on Toni’s face catches him by surprise- it's kinder than he expected. Soft, almost. Antonio isn't soft very often. Arthur looks away. "Uh, I'm gonna call Nat."

Antonio glances at his plate. "Are you gonna finish breakfast? Or like… start?" Arthur just shrugs, pushing his chair back. He pretends he can't feel Antonio's eyes on his back as he walks away.

.

.

Arthur leaves the car idling on the curb as he heads up the front path, whistling. He pauses at the front steps, glances around- oh, there's Ms Grey from next door. He nods politely at her before jumping up on the railing and heaving himself up onto the roof. (It's a lot easier than it used to be, and he reflects for a moment, pleased.) He crawls up to Natalya's window and raps on the glass gently. She scrambles over to pull it open, her face torn between a reprimand and a grin.

God, Arthur will never get tired of looking at Natalya. She's got her hair in two braids, the way they curl forward against her shoulders makes him want to tug them, all gentle, tug her in close enough to- nope, ok, next train of thought.

"-you're so stupid-"

He recognizes absently that he's being chastised, but the next train of thought has already rocketed out from the station, he's far too caught up in the freckle that's situated just under her left eye to care.  _ She's pretty, _ he thinks, kind of hazily, and she has on that chapstick she loves, the one that tints her lips just a bit. He wonders in a momentary fever if it tastes like cherry.

"-people are going to see you-"

She's grabbing his hand. She's trying to tug him inside, and he knows he should, because Ms Grey next door won't tell anyone but there's nothing to say for the other neighbors; Natalya's hand is so nice, though, long fingers and short nails, always softer than he expects, and he gets caught up staring at it for a moment.

"Arthur, get the hell inside."

He jolts at the sudden panic in her voice and scrambles to oblige. He's such a fucking idiot. God, he hopes no one saw him. If her finds out and Nat gets hurt-

Shit. He's so stupid.

Natalya squeezes his hand for another moment before she lets go. "Hey, it's okay," she whispers. His sudden wash of self hatred must have shown on his face. "He's not even awake yet. It's just that Mr Crane leaves soon for work, and he'd yell the goddamn house down if he saw you on my roof." Her hand comes up to touch his cheek. Somehow, that makes everything a little better. "It's okay."

Arthur lets out a long, slow sigh, his arms winding gently around her waist on instinct. "Okay," he agrees, even if the sick feeling in the back of his throat refuses to subside. "Sorry."

He earns himself a tiny smile. "Don't be. I'm glad you came." He hums in response, leaning his cheek into her hand. Natalya lets out a little noise sort of like a laugh and ducks her hand against his shoulder. "You look tired." Arthur seizes the subject change.

"Late night. Mum and I watched her favorite movie with the sequel last night, and I was haunted by fear of what they might be doing all night long." And also Antonio Carriedo. He decides not to mention that.

"The sequel… that's Ben, right?" He nods. Natalya's nose wrinkles. "He's ugly. She ought to go with the knock off, I think."

Arthur bites back a laugh. "That's what I keep saying!" he agrees, his voice painted with mock exasperation. Natalya giggles. He momentarily loses his train of thought. "I think she likes the glasses," he finally manages.

Natalya makes a thoughtful noise and pulls her head back up to regard him carefully. Her gaze slides over his face, hovering on his eyes for a moment too long, and he knows he's imagining that she pauses on his lips, but he can feel himself turning pink anyway. "I guess I get it," she says. "You'd look cute in glasses."

"Oh," Arthur replies, sort of squeaky. "Thanks."

She snorts and moves her hand off his cheek, tucking his hair behind his ear. "No problem." Time is slow for a moment; the morning light is soft and Natalya is smiling and warmth lingers under the skin she brushed, and Arthur can breathe easier than he has in a while. Outside, there's a bird chirping, and it's not as annoying as usual.

Natalya pats his cheek and steps away. "Ok. I have to get ready." She's still wearing her pajamas, he realises, and flushes a little. She points at the bed. "Sit." He sits. Natalya goes to rifle through her closet. "I was thinking," she continues, pulling out several articles of clothing that very obviously don't go together and tossing them on the bed next to him, "that I might should dress up a little. But I don't know why I was thinking that." She pulls out a white and red striped blouse, frowns at it, and puts it back.

Arthur shrugs. "I mean, this is about as dressed up as I get, so I can't really be with you on that one, but it's fun to look nice." Natalya huffs.

"It is fun. But what if everyone else is dressed super casual and I look weird?"

"You won't look weird," he replies automatically. "You'll look pretty." A weird look flashes across Natalya's face.  _ Shit.  _ He scrambles for a way to remedy it. "Uh, Dmitri will be there," he says, a bit lamely.

The weird look comes back for a moment, but she also ducks her head, failing to hide the pink flooding her cheeks, so he knows he's hit a bingo. He tries not to let his face fall.

Dmitri.

Fuck.

"I mean, I don't need to look nice for Dmitri," Natalya mumbles in reply. Arthur rolls his eyes, and because he's trying to be a good friend, he musters up a reply.

"But you  _ want  _ to," he points out. Natalya opens her mouth, but he cuts her off. "Uh uh. I might be dumb, but I'm not blind." She huffs again. Her cheeks have darkened. "You don't need to dress up for him, though. You could show up in a hazmat suit and he'd still get all worked up."

Natalya throws a shoe at him. "He does  _ not  _ get worked up over me," she replies snippily, although she's fighting a grin. Arthur raises his eyebrows. "He doesn't!" She crosses her arms, frowning stubbornly.

"He does." Arthur picks through the clothes lying next to him. "What about this? You never wear this." It's a yellow tank top with little black flowers all over. He remembers her buying it to wear to Lucille's birthday party two years ago. He also remembers locking himself in Lucille's bathroom to have a crisis over how cute his best friend is, so he thinks it'll do for the whole Dmitri thing. Natalya narrows her eyes at it momentarily, but nods.

She gestures for him to turn around. He obliges. There's the sound of rustling fabric momentarily, a pause, and then an annoyed groan. "Arthur."

"Yeah?"

She sounds petulant. "I need help." He turns around. Natalya is standing there with her arms crossed, looking sulky. Natalya is standing there with her arms crossed, looking sulky, in a tank top and her underwear, because her pajamas have been kicked across the room. Arthur has never really considered whether or not this situation would rocket his blood pressure to concerning levels, but the answer is yes. Also he can't breathe very well. Also, Natalya has freckles all over her thighs and that's really cute and he kind of wants to trace them all, but he snaps back into it as she keeps talking. "I don't know what to wear with it. I want to look kind of trippy. Since you're wearing the wackiest shirt of all time. We can match."

"Uh," he says, because he's the height of intellectualism.

Natalya just keeps standing there, and he knows he shouldn't be on the edge of hyperventilating, and he knows that he shouldn't be reacting like this, and he knows she would be uncomfortable if she knew the thoughts running at full speed through his head, but he's a little behind, so he has to take a deep breath before he can push those aside.

"Arthur?"

He manages a smile. "Just thinking," he replies, and it's only a little strained. Natalya frowns. "Uh…" he spins on his heel and walks to the closet, mostly so that he doesn't have to look at her looking at him anymore.

"Arthur."

"Natalya," he replies, but he doesn't turn around, still flipping through the hangers. "Just a sec."

There's another huff. Two arms slide around his waist from behind, and he has to aggressively remind himself that he's her  _ friend _ and he shouldn't be thinking the many, many things he's thinking. Her chin comes to rest on his shoulder. "What are you looking for?"

Arthur narrows his eyes, rifling a moment longer before he finds it. "This. You can look wacky."

Natalya exclaims delightedly and snatches the skirt from his hand. "You're a genius." It's green and black plaid and it swishes when she moves, which always makes her grin. Natalya doesn't wear skirts very often; she'd told him once that she doesn't really mind them, but she hates sitting in them for too long, so she doesn't wear them to school. 

It's a weird ass outfit. She looks adorable. "Hey!" She points excitedly between them. "Your shirt!"

Arthur glances down. "What about it?" he asks, suddenly concerned. Was there something wrong with it? Why was she bouncing?

"We're coordinated!"

They fucking are, aren't they? Arthur honestly can't decide whether he wants to laugh or cry, so he settles for pressing his lips together and nodding real slow. Natalya makes the little giggling sound that makes his heart jump and reaches out to grab his hands.

“You're cute," he says without thinking. She doesn't even pause, just rolls her eyes and squeezes his hands tightly for a moment before pointing to the window. "Okay, okay!" He tugs one of her braids lightly. "Bossy."

She wrinkles her nose at him. "Yeah, yeah. I'll put my shoes on and be right down, okay?"

He chambers out semi-awkwardly. Ms Grey is still on her porch, drinking her morning lemonade. She spares him a wave. Arthur attempts one back, but it puts him off balance and he has to grab tightly onto the windowsill again to keep from tumbling over the lip of the roof. He lands on the ground at the same time as Natalya closes the front door behind her. "My fair lady," he greets, offering his arm. Natalya rolls her eyes and smacks the back of his head lightly, but accepts the gesture.

She waves at Ms Grey with a smile as Arthur opens the car door for her. True to form, of course, she wastes no time in looking through his tapes. "Oh, hey!" She pulls out one from the bottom, grinning. "I made this for you!"

He glances over. She's flipping it over in her hand. "It's like, four minutes to Tolys's house," he points out. "Do we need music?"

"No." She smiles at him sweetly. "I just like being nosy." Arthur shakes his head, starting the car. Natalya tucks the tape back away. She pauses. "Oh my God, I didn't see you."

Antonio's laugh has always been weird, kind of dark and wheezy, but at ten in the morning when he's stretched out in the backseat of Arthur's car, it's a nice sound. "I was wondering when you would. Almost fell asleep waiting for Arty to get back."

Natalya clicks her tongue. "I wouldn't have enlisted him to help me if I knew he had company. He didn't tell me."

"He's not company," Arthur replies flatly. "He's a pain in my ass." Antonio laughs again. Natalya looks away, something like a fond little smile on her face.

Four minutes pass easily, and Arthur tosses the car into park in the driveway. He has to stare at Antonio for a full thirty seconds before the bastard finally consents to getting out instead of sprawling in the sunlight that slants through the back windshield. "You're so fucking weird, you know that?" he asks as Toni shakes his curls out.

"He's like a cat," Natalya reflects, looking thoughtful. "Like, a really funky cat that bites all the time." Antonio looks pleased by this description. Arthur makes a mental note to find new friends.

Antonio only strengthens the resolve when he kicks the front door open, calling out a loud, "Happy fucking Christmas!" that makes Francis shriek. Arthur let his eyes roll up into his head. Why does he like this guy?

"You're smiling," Natalya points out. She's doing the thing where she hugs him from behind again, and he has to swallow sharply past the lump in his throat so that he can pull a face at her. "Stop it. I think it's sweet. I'm glad you guys are friends."

Arthur twists away and laces a hand into hers. "Yeah," he says, a little quieter than he meant to. He squeezes her hand. "Yeah, me too."

.

.

Linnea screams so loudly the birds go flying up in a stormcloud beyond the fence, her arms flailing wildly. "Arthur, help!" He goes to grab on to her outstretched hand and help her keep her balance, but he's not close enough, and she goes plummeting over the edge.

"Traitor!" she yells as she resurfaces, but she's grinning. Her eyes are bright in the afternoon sunlight, and Arthur can't help but grin back at her.

He hasn't been to Tolys's house since Feliks’s birthday, which had ended in utter disaster, but walking in hadn't been as awkward as he expected. Partially because Antonio was already swinging Lucille around in his arms, the both of them laughing, and partially because Natalya had held his hand all the way out to the backyard. At first, they'd just sprawled out on the ground, talking over each other about ten different topics, but Dmitri had dragged Natalya up to dance when his favorite song came on, and she had kissed his cheek before promptly pushing him into the pool. Antonio had instantly seized the opportunity to scoop Francis up into his arms and do the same. (Arthur strongly suspects that it had a great deal to do with getting to scoop Francis up in his arms, but that’s his own speculation.)

Lucille turns the music up. "Jump, Kirkland!" she yells, grinning. "Come on! Afraid to get wet?" Arthur flips her off with both hands and walks backwards, trying not to flinch as he topples blindly over the edge of the pool. "Three out of ten, slowpoke."

Arthur pulls a face and splashes water at her. "I don't see you jumping, Bonnefoy," he shoots back. "No bite?" Lucille sticks her tongue out in lieu of an answer and hops up, stripping her shirt over her head. Arthur ducks to avoid the splash and comes up laughing. Lucille is grinning, the water already making a mess of her hair, and she dives at him, the both of them yelling playfully.

On the other end of the pool, Natalya is sitting on the diving board, laughing at Dmitri’s bitching about her getting his clothes wet. Antonio yells, “Only fair!” and Natalya immediately dives into the water to tackle him for it, skirt be damned. Francis has clambered out to lay on the hot concrete, but he’s got his head tilted to the side to watch them, grinning widely. Arthur pauses momentarily, his eyes searching for Linnea. She’d been here just a moment ago, hadn’t she?

He turned, eyes still searching, and was instantly greeted by more water as she tackled him, knocking them both back into the water. They came up with wide grins, his arms wrapped around her tightly. “There you are.” She giggles, pressing her nose to his, and the sunlight falls over them oh-so-gently, and this is what summer is supposed to be. This is how it’s supposed to feel, carefree and open and warm bodies pressed together in the pool. This is what he’s been craving.

Linnea’s eyes are sparkling. “Miss me?” she teases, and Arthur laughs for the millionth time today, spinning her around as well as he can in the water.

“Always,” he replies, much more honestly than he meant to, but she just runs her fingers down his spine. Hugging Linnea is sort of like what he remembers from riding his dad’s motorcycle. It’s exhilarating, takes the breath out of his lungs if he leans too much into it, but there are warm arms around him that he trusts more than anything in the world, and that’s enough to make it feel like home. Linnea’s always made him feel a little more at home. “I love you,” he says.

Her face lights up a little. His chest feels like it’s radiating sunlight to see her eyes shine like that, and he brings a hand up to run through her hair gently. “I love you too.” Her voice is always so honest, even through the apathy she tries to uphold. It makes him smile before he can help it. “You want to go get more drinks?”

“Yeah, sure,” he accepts easily, following her out of the pool, and it’s not until they’re inside that he realises the cooler is still full. He doesn’t mention it. Sometimes Linnea just can’t be around crowds anymore, he’s noticed; at parties or movie nights or that one baseball game she’d made it to when her school had a week off she’ll drag him away, onto the front porch or under the bleachers, and they’ll be there, just the two of them, existing together. He likes it.

Linnea wraps her arms around herself, shivering lightly in the air conditioning. Their footsteps are wet as they head to the kitchen. He’s just following her lead. It’s easy to follow Linnea’s lead. It always has been, really. She’s smarter than he’d ever be. She’s  _ more  _ than he’ll ever be in every way, and it makes his skin buzz pleasantly to watch her, to follow as she makes whatever path she needs to. She’s everything she needs herself to be, everything anyone could ever want for her to be, all wrapped up in a girl small enough to pick up and swing around in his arms. There’s something about that awe that makes it so much easier to breathe with her around.

She pulls herself up onto the counter, appraising him. “You’re thinking,” she accuses, as if this is some heinous crime. Arthur hums and places his hands on either side of her thighs, leaning in to press his nose against her shoulder briefly.

“About you.” He’s close enough to feel her face soften. His heart softens with it. (God, he’s feeling sappy today. It’s hard not to be sappy with Linnea, though. She worms her way into his life, into his arms, so effortlessly, like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be, and he’s constantly thanking God for his best friend. (Okay, they’re all his best friends, but what do technicalities matter?)) “Do you really want to get drinks?” She shrugs. He brings a hand up to touch her cheek gently. “You’ve got freckles,” he murmurs, somewhat in awe. Linnea laughs gently. It’s just for the two of them, not for the whole sunny world. Arthur wouldn’t mind a small sunny world with just her right here. He taps one that’s just above her lip. “Nat has one here, too,” he remarks absentmindedly.

Linnea’s face falls slightly, he thinks, but it’s so brief that he’s half-convinced he imagined it. “We match, huh?” Her tone is a little more careful. He taps the freckle again.

“Yep.” He can feel a sick kind of feeling in his gut, crawling towards his throat, but he keeps his face relaxed. “It’s kinda cute when my girls match.”

What.

What the fuck did he just say?

Linnea scoffs and buries her head in his shoulder, but he can feel her smile. “Thanks,” she says. He can feel the hot brush of her breath along his collarbone, and it’s making his head soar like he’s drunk. He hasn’t had anything, has he?

He stands there for a moment to relish it all before pulling her forward into his arms and laughing at her yelp. “Easy, easy,” he reassures. “I won’t drop you.” Linnea bites his shoulder, and it  _ hurts. _ “Okay, I might.”

She kicks him a bit where her legs are locked around his waist. “You’re an asshole, Arthur,” she says sternly. “You know you’re an asshole?” He just laughs at her again and spins around a few times to make her cling onto him tighter. Linnea has this way of making him light, alive, like everything is honey and everything is okay. She covers him. “God, why do I love you?” She sounds exasperated, but it melts into fondness when he adjusts her weight and presses their noses together again.

“Because I’m the best?” he guesses. She hums and nods.

His face feels sort of weird. He’s blushing, maybe.

He shifts her so that she’s bridal style in his arms, too caught in smiling down at her to notice the figure sneaking up behind him until a chin is on his shoulder. “I thought I might find you here,” Dmitri says. His voice is amused. “You guys are insufferable, you know?” Arthur blinks at him, but Linnea is glaring suddenly.

“Shut up,” she snaps, and then very primly adds, “Put me down." Arthur obliges in bewilderment. She adjusts her shirt and crosses her arms, still scowling. Dmitri snorts. He smells like chlorine. His arms slide around Arthur in the same kind of hug Natalya likes to give him, and Arthur leans back into it gratefully, still unsure as to what the tension is.

He settles for tilting his head back against Dmitri’s shoulder and reaching out one hand to Linnea. He wiggles his fingers until she takes them. The air conditioner is way too cold without her pulled up against him, so he pulls her back and lets her head rest against his shoulder. Dmitri squeezes him slightly with a laugh, the signature coarse sound that always makes Arthur grin. He'd  _ missed  _ Dmitri. God. He'd missed him a lot.

"Oh!" Arthur turns his head at the exclamation to see the girl standing in the doorway, eyes wide. She's- fuck. The girl with the cute bangs. “Sorry, should I…" she looks a little lost, staring at the three of them, and Arthur can’t summon the brainpower to do much else but stare back.

Linnea speaks up after a moment. "It's okay." She steps back from the hug. "We were just… grabbing drinks."

Dmitri laughs, but it's too high to be his normal laugh, and he lets go of Arthur to pat his shoulder. "Yeah. Sorry, Julia." Julia. Right. That's her name.

Oh, he should probably say something, right? "Do you want to come swimming?" he asks on instinct. Linnea's head swings toward so quickly he's surprised it doesn't make a noise, her eyes wide. She looks… upset? Do she and Julia somehow have beef from different cities that Arthur doesn't know about?

Julia laughs a little, awkwardly, and shakes her head. She’s pretty, he notes absentmindedly, and way out of Tolys's league. She's also wearing Feliks’s Duran Duran shirt. "No, it's okay. Sorry for… intruding."

"You didn't intrude," Dmitri says, almost snapping. His entire body is tense, hovering a few inches behind Arthur. Julia presses her lips together.

A hand lands on her shoulder, and then Tolys steps into the room, surveying them. His face is more relaxed than usual. Open, half-amused, taking them in. He and Linnea regard each other with slight distrust. Tolys’s never gotten over his more prickly habits around her, for some reason. "Morning," he greets, all easy charm and grace as he squeezes Julia's shoulder and steps past her. Arthur can't help the slight tension that leaves his shoulders as Tolys gives him half a grin and pulls out the coffee pot. "Thought you guys were outside."

"Came in to get some drinks," Arthur replies, even though he's really not sure why they came inside at this point. Then, just to be a little shit, he adds, "I didn't expect to meet your girlfriend like  _ this.  _ Been a pleasure." Tolys throws him a dirty look, but Julia just looks pleased, still leaning casually against the doorframe.

Dmitri slings an arm around Arthur's shoulders, clearly trying to act natural. "Isn't she kind of out of his league?" he whispered in Arthur's ear, not hushed at all, and Arthur snorts. Linnea rolls her eyes at them. Julia shrugs a bit, but she looks smugly amused.

Tolys checks his watch and finishes his coffee, clicking his tongue. "Well, we'd love to stay and chat, but we have places to be," he says, and Arthur snorts again.

"You're just going to Feliks's house, aren't you?"

Tolys flips him off and grabs Julia's hand as he leaves. "Hate you! See you tomorrow, sweetheart!"

Oh  _ shit, _ the party. "Yeah, see you tomorrow, hon!" he calls back, and groans as soon as the door closes. "I forgot about the party." He receives two blank gazes in return. "Santiago's having a party. End of summer shebang kind of thing. God, I wonder if Nat wants to skip. I fucking hate Santiago."

Dmitri laughs, the sound muffled in Arthur's shoulder. It feels comfortable, having him pressed against his side like this. He’d always been clingy when they were kids. It’s nice to know that as much as they’ve changed, that’s still something constant. "Everyone fucking hates Santiago," he replies.

"Even I fucking hate Santiago," Linnea adds. "And I have no clue who he is."

Arthur holds out an arm to her, reeling her back into his chest. He doesn't like to go long without holding Linnea when she’s near enough. It's a hollow sort of feeling when he does. "You should," he says, and then doesn't say anything else for a while, and the clock just sort of ticks in the background while they stand there wrapped around each other in the middle of Tolys's kitchen.

Dmitri hums into Arthur's shoulder and then pulls away. "I should get back out there. Natalya wanted me to check on you." Arthur nods, silently mourning the warmth, and pulls Linnea into a more proper hug to hide in her hair.

She runs her fingers up and down his back again. "What do you think about them?" she asks after a minute, abruptly breaking the silence. Arthur blinks. "Dmitri and Natalya," she elaborates. "Do you think… you know. Will they get back together?"

Arthur's throat feels like sandpaper. "Oh. I-"  _ I don't want them to, _ he almost says, but bites it back. He's pretty sure the whole Nat Thing is obvious already, thanks. "I'd kind of forgotten they dated, honestly," he says instead. It's hard to hold onto memories from back then. Something about the way he’d hated himself, the way he still does for the things he’d said to them, tends to make everything else fade. Jumble up. Arthur can't remember a lot of things at this point; there was the anger, the teenage angst, the Thomasson’s move, and somewhere in there was Natalya and Dmitri and Antonio and Linnea and Francis and a late night Grease showing and Santiago and drugs and Alfred and three long, empty months he's surprised he lived through. There's all that, and then there's the baseball tryouts and meeting Gabriel and feeling good in the uniform and feeling sick in the uniform because he was awful, Toni said he was awful, Toni said he was abandoning his friends and there was The Fight. He can't remember how the argument started, can't remember what day or month it was, but he can remember standing in the school hallway at six in the morning with Antonio wearing that stupid, awful red sweater, and he remembers saying things he's glad he can't quite recall and he remembers blood on his knuckles. He remembers the long lull of suspension. He remembers the terrible, empty feeling that came with losing the only friends he had ever really wanted.

Honestly, he tries not to remember much else.

Linnea’s hand comes up to touch his face, and his chest feels a little less like it's caving in on itself. He takes a shuddering breath. "I'm sorry," she says. "I know you- I'm sorry."

Arthur sighs out a soft, "don't worry about it," and brings a hand up to run through her hair. It's soft. It smells like cherries. He's starting to like cherries, he thinks. "I have you. That's more than enough."

She smiles, and the world feels like it's tilted back on its axis. "I love you too." He wrinkles his nose at her, but she just wrinkles hers back and looks so cute that he forgets what they were talking about. Like when Natalya makes that face she gets when she's bored, that little twist of her lips, the almost melancholy slope upward in her brow- it's the same feeling in his chest, the pleasant buzz. Like very soft bees. Eternal summertime.

"Ok, sunshine," he says softly after a minute. "I love you." And he does. And he's said it a million times, but it's so warm right now, radiating out of him. The kitchen turns into something unearthly, just for a moment, somewhere completely and irrevocably safe. Arthur hasn’t felt safe in such a long time. His chest aches sharply, suddenly, and he steps back. “We should get back outside,” he mumbles, unsure why his voice feels so clumsy in his own mouth. “They’re probably waiting on us.”

They’re not. But Antonio pushes himself from where he’s sprawled out on the ground next to Francis and grins maniacally. “Hey, hey, hey!” he calls. “Look who’s back!” Arthur pulls a face back and settles at the edge of the pool, kicking his legs back and forth in the water. Linnea pauses next to him. She’s looking to the other end of the pool- to Dmitri and Natalya, who are half tangled together and lost in whatever conversation they’re having. It feels like a kick to the chest.

He thinks about the freckles under Nat’s rib. At least he has that little moment to hold onto.

Linnea ends up wriggling her way in between Francis and Antonio, blinking innocently at Toni’s glare. Francis just looks amused. He’s been giving Toni a lot of looks like that recently. Maybe he’s picking up on it. Maybe he’s always picked up on it and it just doesn’t bother him anymore. Maybe- and Arthur hates how bitter the thought is in his mouth- he’s the last one left alone. Dmitri with Natalya, and Antonio with Francis, and Linnea with… well, with everyone, basically, because Linnea refuses to be lonely. Arthur isn’t good at not being lonely. He’s just Arthur, the one that’s not good enough, for the thousandth time.

It doesn’t really matter anyway, because even if he’s not the last one left standing, he’s alone right now. He kicks his feet in the water and wishes sort of hazily that he could go under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, you made it through!!! tbh i kind of hate this chapter but. you know. plot aha. anyway here you go!!!! i hope you enjoy!!! drop a comment to let me know what you thought, babes. i love you all (:

**Author's Note:**

> if u made it thru this i honestly applaud u and fully admit that i too am vaguely baffled by it but!!! it was fun to write, i hope it was fun to read, and i love each and every one of you who did!! ok thank you please drop kudos or a comment if you enjoyed (:


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